


between 2 and 2:30 in the pm

by seakid



Series: thirty minutes [2]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Adam's POV, M/M, Pining, pure lame gayness, sleepy afternoons in st. agnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:25:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seakid/pseuds/seakid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there are secrets inside of him that he can't seem to hold anymore, and this one, this terrifying itch between his ribs to stretch his fingers to fit the spaces of ronan’s, is the kind of secret he doesn't even want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between 2 and 2:30 in the pm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belljar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belljar/gifts).



> ~you should probably read [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4930222) first~

there is sunlight hitting the window and half his face in a way that somehow confirms the fact that he is forgetting something. when you have to remember a thousand momentarily significant things like penned memories from history books of who died when, life is fairly easy. when you have to remember to forget countable things like the memory of your best friend’s death from the future, not so much. sometimes he can't keep up with all the remembering and forgetting. some odd times, when it's 2:04 PM and he's still wrapped in thin blankets, but it's warm, so warm, and his limbs are numb, he doesn't wish to move, he doesn't wish to think, and he's carelessly fishing for that thing he's apparently forgetting, and he slips.

he doesn't mean to do it. he rarely does things he doesn't mean to.

he removes the glances, the steel-blue eyes, the most innocent of touches, the more questionable ones, every five inch of space shared between them, and everything else he has neatly folded and tucked into his Worries For Another Day pocket.

he listens to his breathing, which doesn't sound like his own ( _it's wrong to think this_ ). he thinks it anyway ( _maybe it's okay to think it while i am still asleep_ ). he analyses a few things ( _i am not sleeping though_ ). he sees what he's seen before ( _i could be wrong_ ). he closes his eyes ( _this is vanity, and i’ve chosen the worst kind_ ). he opens his eyes ( _but what if what if what if_ ).

his heart cuts out a different sort of rhythm he's never heard before when he turns to his side and finds the entirety of his Worries For Another Day pocket spilled in human shape on his bed.

(this is what he was forgetting)

there is a measured distance between them and an equally unmeasured gaze. his lips twitch dangerously at having caught it, as do his insides when a second has gone too long and he is suddenly afraid that the gaze won't flicker, ever, but then it does and he is still afraid.

_it's shit o’clock in the afternoon don't you have a car to repair?_ ronan says, and adam adds this to a list of strangely relieving things to hear at 2:18 PM.

and then, _shit_. shit. _this_ is what he was forgetting.

_fuck why didn't you wake me_ he says, making no attempts to move.

ronan shrugs, makes a dismissive sound, doesn't deem this worthy of a verbal response. they don't move for another eight minutes. he thinks it's okay to not move for a while. he thinks it's okay to have missed school and his shift at the garage because maybe this was long due, the sleep. and ronan. he sees ronan place his hand between them, his heart doubles over thinking, for a moment, that the hand was reaching out for him, _him_. there are secrets inside of him that he can't seem to hold anymore, and this one, this terrifying itch between his ribs to stretch his fingers to fit the spaces of ronan’s, is the kind of secret he doesn't even want to.

he says  _what did you want me to know?_

_what?_

_you wanted to tell me something._

( _did you forget why you came here in the middle of the night?_ ) ( _please don't_ )

_no_ ronan says, whispers.

_liar_ he whispers back, and ronan doesn't reply, just pushes him off the bed till his breath is caught in surprise and he's half on the bed, half on the floor in a tangle of bedsheet. he gives out a miserable laugh, and ronan looks at him over the edge of the bed looking mildly amused.

_you stink of alcohol_ he says from his unwilling place on the floor.

_you stink of self-righteousness_.

he thinks of an appropriate insult to retaliate with, and it sits in the back of his throat because it's 2:30 PM in the godawful afternoon and the sun is lighting ronan’s face in a way that makes him look like a menacing villain from an old movie and it is a terrible, _terrible_  fucking moment to realize how badly he wants this boy.

_i want you to know something too_ he says instead, and watches ronan's lip tremble in the slightest, a hint that says _i already know_.

this is a fucking mess, he thinks, but they are wearing matching grins like secrets and _this_ , for once, is a secret he's ready to give anything for if it means he gets to keep it.

**Author's Note:**

> (he does)


End file.
